It Was Me All Along

by Andie Mitchell

  I tossed a chocolate into my mouth. I felt a relief not unlike submerging myself in a swimming pool after lying for hours in the unrelenting sun. Sure enough, I was comforted the whole time I ate them. Melissa and I went about unpacking, and I continued eating all the while. When the Kit Kat bag could be upturned without a chocolatey crumb left, I started in on the sugar wafers. I ate until I felt sick. But I didn’t, I couldn’t, stop.

  Later, after I’d mildly recovered from extreme fullness, Melissa and I walked to a pizzeria I’d passed on my way into the city. There I placed an order for four arancini—deep-fried balls of risotto—and a huge slice of pepperoni pizza. Melissa ate a meal half that size and didn’t say anything about the enormity of my appetite.

  I ate, perhaps without even tasting any of it, trying to keep up a conversation when all I could think of was the food. The guilt set in as I trudged the two flights up to our apartment. I sincerely wished I could take it all back—the candy, the wafers, the arancini, the pizza. None of it felt worth the setback in my weight loss progress. Two steps forward, one step back, I reprimanded myself.

  I showered, as if to shampoo the shame away. The hot water wrapped around me in a hug. When I slipped between the covers of my twin bed that night, I switched on the tiny book light I’d brought with me and wrote in my journal. It was the first time I’d written about the emotional side of the journey, rather than simply penning my usual notes on what I’d eaten. I started with a couple of paragraphs about my food infidelity. How I’d cheated on health and myself with cheap thrills like chocolate and pizza. What started as a guilt-ridden rant against my binge turned right and left down roads that revealed my real anxiety and homesickness. Three furiously written pages in, I realized I wasn’t writing about food at all any longer. I was writing about how the change of setting from Florence to Rome had rattled me, made me feel bewildered and alone. I noticed myself doing what I so often did in the past: I began to paint it black. I took the single smudge on an otherwise beautiful painting, and I smeared it more. I let the mistake bleed all over, in thick brushstrokes of regret. Covered what was once good and unique with a film of black. Tears rose. Don’t do this, Andie. I pressed closed the leather journal and switched off the light, too tired to fight myself any longer.

  The problem with bingeing was that although I promised myself I would not do it again, I silently wished I could. On the one hand, I wanted to be right back on track, doing well and paying attention to what I was eating; and on the other, I wanted to veer off course and stay riding in the direction that wound into oblivion. It was this dichotomy that killed me. The wanting to be different in order to be perceived as better, yet wishing I didn’t have to try so hard.

  I wished I could find some hideaway, somewhere I could be as reclusive as I pleased and just eat. And eat. And cry. And eat. And cry. I wondered, momentarily, if maybe I’d had the right idea in the beginning of high school, when I’d silently resigned myself to being the fat girl. Should I go back to that? Was it easier then? I thought fondly back to the days when I’d stopped caring.

  When I woke the next morning, I opened my eyes to a stream of sunlight breaking through the curtains. Before I could soak in a full twenty serene seconds, I remembered all that I’d gorged on. Getting off the bed, I felt that fat, guilty brick in my stomach, and I wished it were possible to grab it, rip it out of my body, and throw it as far as my arm strength would allow.

  I thought about writing the whole day off as ruined and promising to start anew tomorrow, the way I’d done in the past. In seconds I had a mental list that began and ended with gelato—all that I’d plow through if I were to go through with a spoiled day turned binge. I dabbled in the sweet possibility that the gelateria up the road had a “Gotta Have It” size like Cold Stone Creamery back home. I paused. It would have been easy. But I realized that I couldn’t knowingly look to food for a way out when it had so clearly led me here. It wasn’t hunger that beckoned me to eat more. It wasn’t my stomach that needed to be reconciled. It was shame. It was guilt. And food can’t remedy such things.

  I dressed and walked ten minutes past the Tiber River to Trastevere, the nook of Rome where Google had promised me I’d find a gym. It was all I could do to distract myself from creeping thoughts of cannoli. Up two flights to a small apartment, I immediately realized that the Italian version of gym wasn’t in line with the American one. The space seemed filtered in that grainy, old-timey-photo haze, with the same dated effect as the pictures in Mom’s childhood album. Everything tinted yellow, blown out, and overexposed—dusty, almost. This four-room flat with two rickety old treadmills, two ’70s-style free-weight sets, wrought iron weight benches, dingy foam mats, and the strongest smell of salty-sweat-meets-my-nana’s-musty-basement was nothing I’d ever experienced before. In each room, an aging Italian man stood perspiring in a ribbed white tank top, light heather-gray sweatpants with elastic banding around his ankles, and a terry cloth sweatband rounding his full head of hair. I thought of my grandfather, all potbellied and purposeful, doing his daily set of ten push-ups in the living room.

  Smiling warmly at the gentleman behind the front desk—quite literally a student’s desk; there was no formal entryway whatsoever—I told him my name and asked him, in Italian gibberish, for a membership.

  I left the so-called gym and stepped back out into a sunny day. Regardless of how poor an establishment it was, I knew I needed it. I continued walking through Trastevere in no particular direction. Already, the guilt of the night before had begun to fade.

  The following morning, I returned to the gym, a brief jaunt from Campo alongside the Tiber and across Ponte Sisto. Just the sight of the treadmill in that small back room petrified me. I had never been successful at running consistently in my life, especially that one time I attempted the mile at lacrosse tryouts and, upon completion, promptly threw up. Let’s give this another go, I thought as I stepped up onto the better of the two treadmills—the one that shook a fraction less violently when moving. I had to try running, anyhow; there weren’t any other cardio machines. Headphones positioned firmly on my ears, I pressed Start. I jogged for a while, and then, sure that I’d completed fifteen minutes, I looked down to find I’d only run for six.

  I want to quit, I want to quit, I want to quit. And when I’m done quitting, I’d like to quit again.

  I plodded on, determined to see the red digital timer reach twenty minutes. My lungs neared explosion, burning so intensely I was sure they’d catch fire any second. My belly bounced. I swore aloud and then glanced to my right and left, not wanting to have offended anyone. I spent the remaining eternity on the treadmill wishing it to be over. When I realized that time did not speed up in direct connection to my rising resentment for running, I made promises to myself that it would get easier.

  Over the course of three weeks, somehow, some way, it did. I built up to a steady jog—one in which I wouldn’t need to stop more than twice. At five miles per hour, for thirty solid minutes, I carried all two-hundred-some-odd pounds of me. The sense of accomplishment that tingled through me as I’d finish each morning almost dulled the soreness in my quads, my butt, my calves.

  After my film classes let out in the afternoons, I walked around the city. Sometimes purposefully and sometimes not, but usually with Melissa. All that mattered to the two of us was that we explored, that we saw every part of Rome. Every monument, every antique church, every centuries-old piazza. And I was glad to have endless destinations, reasons to keep moving. I took the stairs when there were escalators available; I walked to class when there were buses; I traveled to Naples and climbed Mount Vesuvius with new friends I’d made on a rainy Tuesday morning, when my unbalanced self would have been better suited to sitting at its base.

  And there, in a city, a country, that doesn’t necessarily believe in formal exercise, I learned to run. If I close my eyes tight, I can almost still feel the up and down jiggling of a body with essentially three filled backpacks of excess strapped to it. The wa
y pants always loved giving me wedgies. The raw patches made from chafing.

  Every day, every run, every walk was triumphant. I was getting there. Even without a scale to offer proof, I knew I was losing. I knew that I was changing. But if I wasn’t able to identify my birthmarks while staring at my own jiggly body each evening, I wouldn’t have believed the person I’d become. I wouldn’t have known whose body I was looking at. The size sixteen trouser jeans I’d bought just before coming to Italy required a tight belt to keep them on my hips. Even the belt needed new holes punched in it to make it smaller.

  Three months in, I saw the way I’d transformed when I chose to jog on cobblestones that led past the Roman Forum to the Colosseum. When Melissa and I took our first Bikram yoga class next to St. Peter’s Basilica. When I didn’t curse more than twice while doing two sets of twenty-six yoga poses in Italian.

  Exercise was changing not only my shape, but my relationship with eating, too. I recognized that when I felt better physically, I was more motivated to eat well. The thought of potentially undoing any of the hard work I’d put into walking and running weakened the appeal of bingeing. It became increasingly easier to choose healthy, wholesome foods and to keep my portions of rich, indulgent foods small. For the first time in my life, I was able to eat decadently without gorging. Pasta, bread, pastries, ice cream—all could be eaten within reason.

  One weekend, I traveled to Bologna with the close girlfriends I’d made. There, at a caffè on some side street, I savored a meal I will never forget.

  A carafe of deep ruby wine, the house vino rosso, was poured into each of our glasses by the waiter. My first sip was a burst of juicy sweet grapes. I pulled a hunk off the crusty loaf of bread sitting center stage at our table. Slowly I broke it into smaller pieces and dipped each gently into the tiny plate of olive oil, the edges of the bread sopping up the fruity clean flavor. Antipasti came next—a platter of grilled zucchini, eggplant, and asparagus alongside aged cheeses, plump vinaigrette-marinated white beans, and salty olives. A taste of each was enough to whet my appetite. I sat quietly, patiently, waiting for my next course. The time passed slowly, and our conversation meandered through every avenue. Now and again, I glanced around the ten-table ristorante at other diners. I envisioned the life of each patron. They’ve just fallen in love, I assumed, staring at the table to my left. He forgot her birthday, at my right.

  And just as these make-believe tales reached new levels of absurdity, a plate swooped under my nose and settled down in front of me. Tortelloni Bolognese, the specialty of the house. Handmade pasta—plump and bulging with a filling of luscious ricotta and spinach—lay delicately in my shallow dish. Seven of them, altogether. On top, a thick meat sauce steamed my face as I leaned in to breathe the richness of minced beef and veal. The beauty of it—even just the smell alone—was enough to make my mouth water. I stabbed my fork tines through one of the tight crescents of pasta, piercing clean through the silky center. I scooped downward, catching crumbles of tender beef and veal that had simmered low and slow all day. Salt and fat and savory all at once. I felt present, in rapture with such deliciousness. Seeing only one plump shape left amid a puddle of sauce, I sensed contentment coursing through me. It was what it was: a much-loved meal. And now, I said to myself, it’s over. Remember it. Another plate wouldn’t have brought me any greater satisfaction, because contentment doesn’t double by the serving.

  I walked away from that mahogany table with a fullness of mind. As we left the restaurant, I turned to Melissa as she sighed, wishing every meal could be that good. I didn’t say it then, but what I thought was, Maybe every meal could, if I let it. Maybe the difference between a standard meal and a great meal has as much to do with its taste as it does my perception, my energy in devouring it. And that was the difference in me. The change I’d undergone—from someone who ate to capacity to distract her mind, into someone who purposely tasted every morsel—was not unconscious. It was a transformation that had taken deliberate effort before and after that meal. I put my fork down between bites instead of making like a shovel and digging in. I let a forkful of food sit on my tongue in order to observe its flavor, to savor it. I paused often during the meal to check in with my hunger and fullness.

  Daily, I recommitted to practicing moderation. I’d scramble two eggs and eat them alongside fresh fruit at my apartment for breakfast. I’d find a small caffè where I could sit outside and eat a salad for lunch—usually mixed baby greens with balls of fresh mozzarella cheese, tuna, a few glugs of olive oil, and a squeeze of lemon. And in the evening, I’d revel in seeking out a dish or restaurant I hadn’t tried before. I’d drink the aged wine spouting from wooden barrels on my street corner. On sunny afternoons, I’d walk the streets on self-guided gelato tastings. The teeny-tiny spoons would help to pace me. They forced small and deliberate licks of stracciatella and nocciola. And I didn’t gorge as I once would have been tempted to. Eating there was different from anything I’d ever experienced. The portions were smaller, and the plates, too. The elegance of a meal wasn’t in the food alone, but in the way I’d linger at the table, the way I’d sit for nearly half a night outside at a wrought iron table to people-watch and sip espresso. There was a meaningful nature to eating. It was celebrated; it was an activity done three times per day. No more. No less.

  The food had not changed. It had not become tastier, more flavor packed since I arrived in Italy in January. My appreciation of it had. I focused my desires on reveling in moderation, and the urges to binge fell away, slowly, over time. Of course, there remained certain foods—all things sweet, in particular—that begged me to overindulge. Anything cake or pastry. These sweets required a special kind of treatment. I had to start by completely avoiding them so as not to binge, and then I had to learn—painfully slowly—that two pastries never really felt better than one. That the only difference between the enjoyment of three desserts versus one is a higher cost in dollar bills and pride. This was one of my hardest lessons. Because no matter how logically I understood my need to practice moderation, I still craved the feeling of limitlessness.

  During the week, I attended classes and film viewings, acquainting myself with the work of Visconti, Fellini, and Zeffirelli. Weekends I’d travel by myself or with friends who were willing to pay thirty dollars for a turbulent Ryanair flight and an unsavory hostel stay in a new city: Dublin, Paris, Valencia, Barcelona, Amsterdam, London, eleven romantic cities in Italy. The more places I visited, the more my wanderlust grew. I was starting to feel free.

  Near the end of my stay in Rome, my food budget had dwindled. It made sense, given all the restaurants I’d sampled and the small fortune I spent on calling cards to call Daniel. Melissa and I decided to make more of our meals at home. The open-air markets—the fruit and vegetable stands lining Campo—became daily stops on my way home from classes. In our little kitchen, I began cooking. I sautéed a mass of vegetables; I dressed arugula in floral olive oil and a drizzle of sweet balsamic vinegar as thick and ebony as molasses; I tore nubs off a softball of freshly pulled mozzarella and ate it with bright, fragrant leaves of basil; I boiled strands of angel hair pasta al dente and, upon draining it, quickly stirred in a scoop of mascarpone cheese and a fresh egg while the pasta was piping hot, the heat barely cooking the runny egg. After plating, I’d shred bits of smoked salmon on top, adding a welcome salty contrast to the creamy pasta. It was my own version of carbonara. And late at night, when Melissa and I watched episode after episode of Grey’s Anatomy on her laptop, we’d munch popcorn we had made on the stove top: a thin coating of olive oil at the bottom of a large pot followed by a handful of popcorn kernels. We shook salt, garlic powder, and Parmesan cheese into the hot pot and shook the corn around until each kernel was lightly coated in the sharp garlic-and-cheese mixture. It felt fun, like the old days of digging into Fritos bags while watching Dawson’s Creek with Sabrina. I could still have the illusion of snacking, volume- and flavorwise, while keeping my intake within the point range I’d learned at
Weight Watchers, using my own wonky estimation system without any formal calculator.

  I left Rome in mid-May with a heavy heart.

  But I stepped off the plane a new girl.

  There, in baggage claim, was Mom, with tears just streaming down her milky-white Irish cheeks. She snatched me toward her and held me as though I might fly away again if not somehow anchored to her. She tucked her nose into my neck and breathed my hair. “My baby. I missed you,” she said.

  Pulling back to look at her, I smiled, “Me too, Mumma.”

  Our love spell broke with Mom practically shouting about my changed body, each word spoken in staccato for greater effect. She held me out in front of her at arm’s length, as if assessing wall art. “Oh, my God! Look at you!” Again with the tears.

  Leaving the airport, I saw my reflection in the clear glass panel of windows. Whose body is this? was the only thought racing through my mind. Tall and slender and … normal.

  I grinned at my reflection, as broadly as ever, near giddy at what I’d accomplished. I met eyes with a woman walking out beside us. She stared at my crazy-eyed smile. Amused, she asked in a slightly patronizing tone, “Happy?!”

  I looked at her, embarrassed by my odd behavior.

  “Very.” I smiled brightly at her as I turned away.

  I could barely contain the joy. I knew it even before I stepped on the scale and saw that I had lost 55 pounds. I felt proud, alive. I was twenty-one now and, for the first time, appropriately weighed in for my height at 155 pounds. My jeans hung low on my hips, still the size fourteens Mom had mailed me midway through my trip when I told her that the sixteens and eighteens I had brought with me were too big. The one thin belt I’d packed did its best to keep them up, but it created a large gap at my waist, the pants folding in on themselves and falling below the belt’s line. I wonder what size I should be wearing now? I asked myself.